The Cuallacht of Destryn

I can hear their snarling and barking as I push myself to go faster. I can barely breathe. Branches snap under my feet as I race through the forest, fleeing the pack of wild dogs growing closer and closer. I hear thunder crash overhead, and I wonder if it truly is rumbling thunder or the blood pulsing in my ears. I’m lost now, jumping over fallen trees and ducking under low branches, and just as I feel there will be no way out of here, I find myself in a clearing. I barely register the yellowing grass in a semicircle around the cathedral or the faded white crosses and cracked grey stones around it. All I know is there are hounds at my heels, a storm blowing in, and I need to find shelter immediately. Without thinking, I throw myself against the large, hand-carved doors. Thankfully they open with little resistance, and I stumble inside with the doors thudding shut behind me. I lean back against them with all my strength, gasping for breath as the dogs try to claw their way in. The argument with my father earlier today takes over my thoughts.

“You’re not spending any more time with the hysterical society!” he shouted.

“It’s historical society, and why not?!” I shouted back.

“Because we still have medical bills to pay from your mother! You need a real job! One where you make actual money!” He growled. Softer, he said, “You’re an adult now, and I’m counting on you.”

“Fine!” I snap. “I’ll start tomorrow, but not right now! I’ll be late for tea with Madra.” I stormed out and slammed the front door shut behind me.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” I could hear him shout from the other side of the door. I sprinted down the path behind my father’s house, through the park, and down by the train station towards my Madra’s house, Eihmir Latherna - my saving grace.

We met at the public library when we both reached for the same book: Odd Happenings in Destryn. We talked, exchanged notes about the town’s history, and became best friends. She invited me to her historical society meetings. Maybe, my father was right, and I was spending too many hours researching my hometown, but it meant time with Madra and time not worrying about the present. All that is comforting and safe in my life flows from Madra. Whenever I think of her, it’s the day she asked me to stop calling her Ma’am, instead asking me to use Madra, grandmother, in her mother tongue.

“Kara! Are you alright?” Madra asked as she ushered me inside her grand old house.

“I’m not alright, Madra.” I choked out.

“Let’s go and have some tea. You can tell me all about it.” She replied, enfolding me tenderly, wiping my eyes, before leading the way,

We sat at her tea table with the familiar dainty bone china service waiting, two cups and saucers in their usual places. She poured the lavender and chamomile tea; the aroma calmed me instantly. Somehow she always knew exactly what would make me feel better.

“Now, what troubles you, dearie?” She asked before taking a small sip of her tea.

“My father! He’s pressuring me to get a job and quit wasting time on our research.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “We owe thousands for my mother’s medical bills.” She leaned across the table, took my hands into hers, painfully gnarled by arthritis, and gave a small squeeze.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

I got up and followed her as she shuffled to her bedroom, pointing to me to stay by her sumptuous bed as she went to the closet and returned with an ornate box.

“This has been in my family for generations. Kara, you know, you’re like a granddaughter to me. I want you to have this.” She said before handing me a worn, black, leather-bound notebook with frayed, yellowed pages.

“Thank you, Madra. What is it?” I asked her as I looked it over.

“Notes and accounts collected from The Cuallacht of Destryn.” She replied before continuing. “There are many cryptic passages, most I don’t understand. My mother died young, so it was left to my grandmother to give me the notebook. She passed away unexpectedly without sharing all the knowledge she had. She did make it clear the Cuallacht’s cathedral was central. The little I’ve deciphered from studying the notebook points to a mural on the ceiling, and I think it holds the secret to understanding the remainder.”

I listened, waiting eagerly for her to continue.

“I’ve looked for the cathedral ever since. Sadly, I’ve never found it, but you, you can help me now.” She paused then, taking a breath. “And I can help you. I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars in cash right away. Bring me pictures of the ceiling mural so we can figure out the secrets together.”

“Madra, I can’t- how am I going to explain any of this to my father?” I asked.

“I need you to not worry. Focus on finding the cathedral. I don’t have much time left in this life. Everything I have I will give to you, Kara; your inheritance will be substantial. Find the cathedral; help me understand these secrets.” She had replied with a kind smile and urgent look. I gingerly wrapped her frail frame in a hug. “Now, let’s go finish our tea. We have much to discuss.”

When thunder shakes the cathedral, I come back to the present, reminding me I am indeed here, and I am very afraid. With the hounds gone, I step away from the doors and discover I can bolt them shut. I make my way down the aisle, remove my phone from my pocket, and take pictures as I go. Lightning illuminates the scenes in the stained glass windows; a few are broken, yet no rain manages to get in. I can see the Virgin Mary, a few depictions of Christ, and an angel with golden wings and a yellow halo. As I walk, I look at the oaken pews and see a few hymnals lying on them. For a brief second, I consider picking one up to page through it. Thunder sounds overhead again, amplified by the acoustics of the cathedral. I can feel the sound vibrating through me, and I wonder if the choir and congregation had the same effect as they rejoiced. What kind of voice did the priest have? What words did he speak?

I stop in the middle to focus fully on the high ceiling; my breath catches in my throat as I stare. So many things are going on at once, and I raise my phone to take picture after picture, trying to capture it all. The scene is painted in such vibrant colors. It looks as pristine as the day it was completed. Angels and demons of all colors fighting against each other with swords, spears, and shields; none taking pleasure or smiling as they fight. Ethereal bodies are clothed in white robes, signifying their holy and pure nature, while their adversaries are clothed in burgundy, a symbol of lust and anger. My eyes roam over the colorful scenes, taking in every detail until they come to rest upon three angels and a demon at the edge of the painting. The three angels are forcefully cutting the black, feathered wings off of a demon, and I can almost hear him howling in untold agony. Tears stream down my cheeks as I study his sweet face. The angels look as though they’re angry, but why? It hits me with the speed of a lightning bolt: there is no such thing as innocence. I lower my phone and place it back in my hoodie pocket, still staring at the depiction of what happens in war. Both sides are doing what they believe is best, and in all honesty, no one truly wins.

“How could you cry for me?” A soft, deep voice asks from the altar, and my eyes widen in shock when they meet his. The wingless demon with black eyes now stands at the altar. “Most don’t feel bad about it. They want the pure ones to win and see that as a sign that darkness will succumb to the light.” He continues, his void-like eyes pinning me in place as he walks closer. I’m visibly shaking as he draws near, afraid of what will happen.

“W-what are you? Who are y-you?” I ask him, my voice trembling and barely audible. He stops walking a few rows away from me and tilts his head.

“You know what I am, but as for who I am, I cannot tell you, for I have forgotten.” He replies absently, and I watch as he reaches up to tuck a strand of his ebony hair behind an ear.

“Why are you not afraid, little lamb?” He asks, staying where he stands.

“I am afraid, terrified, but if you wanted to kill me, you would have already,” I reply.

“Fair enough.” He says, his head no longer tilted now, and I really look at him.

His burgundy robe replaced by black jeans, a long-sleeved black shirt, but still barefoot. Probing eyes, dark as his hair, staring at me and his pale skin turns to purple around his eyes. His shoulder-length hair frames his face like feathers. Under different circumstances, he’d be handsome.

“Why would you cry for me?” he asks me again.

“I really don’t know,” I reply, the words tasting false as they reach my tongue and paint the air between us.

“Don’t lie to a liar, now tell me the truth, little lamb.” He replies, a cold half-smile on his chapped lips.

“Sympathy for the devil, I guess,” I reply, shrugging a little as I say it. “I always have way too much sympathy for those around me, and seeing that,” I point up, “physically, emotionally, and soulfully hurts me.”

He looks at me, and his smirk disappears. The distance between us vanishes within a second, and he has me by the throat within two. I struggle to breathe as his hand slowly tightens, and I weakly fight back against him. He leans close to me, and the aroma of autumn leaves invades my nostrils.

“You’re one of them, one of the angels.” He half whispers, half growls in my ear as I renew my struggle, trying to tell him I’m not one of them. “No matter how badly they wanted to hide you from me- from us, my hounds herded you here. I knew you were one of them the moment your eyes met mine, sweet little lamb.” My eyes widened at the recollection of being chased, now knowing there was a purpose behind it. “Now,” he says, pulling away from my ear to look me in the eyes as my struggles cease, “Just sleep.”

When I come to, I find myself outside on the yellowed grass- no cathedral in sight. Thunder rumbles in the distance and I sit up. I reach for my phone, my eyes catch on the black, metal bracelet shaped like a feather around my right wrist, and I realize how cold it is against my skin. A slight breeze passes and there’s the faint smell of autumn leaves, though it is summer.

I go back to my phone, looking for the pictures I’d gone through so much to take. The images are there but blurry. Frustrated and a little panicked, I reach into my backpack and remove the notebook Madra gave me and a pencil. Quickly, I search for a clean page to begin sketching, hoping this will be enough. How much detail can I remember? Thinking back, I’m flooded with memories. How he looked at me, his voice. I wonder if I’ll be able to find the cathedral again. Will he still be there? What will happen if I see him again?